Footwear
From a seat by the window I can see the restless, grey lake. A boat moves jerkily out of view propelled by inexpert rowers anxious to reach the deserted jetty.
Heels click on the quarry tiled floor, black, highly polished, tightly laced shoes, the waiter making his presence known, the showman displaying his on-stage skills.
He tells me I shouldn't miss the fish chowder. I nod and add the obligatory Americano with cold milk. His metallic studs recede, the swing door barely slowing his determined progress, through to the steam-filled kitchen.
Silver boots with small heels emerge, tray balanced with accustomed ease, on outstretched hand, teapot, milk jug, cups, saucers, scones, jam, cream eagerly awaited at table six. The two women exchange cruise stories in gradually rising voices. A brief silence whilst crockery is organised, milk and tea poured, sugar spooned, scones cut and spread. The tales of disembarking at Venice continue.
The waitress glances momentarily at her silver boots, as they make their confident way back to the kitchen. The door swings again.
I shuffle my feet to ease off well-worn walking boots surreptitiously and edge them under the table. I continue with my lack of progress on twenty three down and think of fish.
Brown shoes with long, long pointed toecaps emerge from behind the counter, a surprise choice for the balding older man who moves slowly across the cafe, his long apron flapping, to clear table ten. Well - a surprise for me, but probably not for him.
There is no sign yet of my steaming chowder bowl or the answer to twenty three down. The wind whips across the distant lake and trees sway in choreographed unison. I push my boots closer to the warmth of the radiator, where they're joined by my black and red striped feet.
A familiar click, click announces the arrival of coffee. Make that two fish chowders I tell him as, at last, two rainbow coloured wellington boots cross the floor, toes turned slightly inwards, trailing wet, mud-tinged puddles.
She lowers her tall frame into the chair opposite and smiles that smile.
Heels click on the quarry tiled floor, black, highly polished, tightly laced shoes, the waiter making his presence known, the showman displaying his on-stage skills.
He tells me I shouldn't miss the fish chowder. I nod and add the obligatory Americano with cold milk. His metallic studs recede, the swing door barely slowing his determined progress, through to the steam-filled kitchen.
Silver boots with small heels emerge, tray balanced with accustomed ease, on outstretched hand, teapot, milk jug, cups, saucers, scones, jam, cream eagerly awaited at table six. The two women exchange cruise stories in gradually rising voices. A brief silence whilst crockery is organised, milk and tea poured, sugar spooned, scones cut and spread. The tales of disembarking at Venice continue.
The waitress glances momentarily at her silver boots, as they make their confident way back to the kitchen. The door swings again.
I shuffle my feet to ease off well-worn walking boots surreptitiously and edge them under the table. I continue with my lack of progress on twenty three down and think of fish.
Brown shoes with long, long pointed toecaps emerge from behind the counter, a surprise choice for the balding older man who moves slowly across the cafe, his long apron flapping, to clear table ten. Well - a surprise for me, but probably not for him.
There is no sign yet of my steaming chowder bowl or the answer to twenty three down. The wind whips across the distant lake and trees sway in choreographed unison. I push my boots closer to the warmth of the radiator, where they're joined by my black and red striped feet.
A familiar click, click announces the arrival of coffee. Make that two fish chowders I tell him as, at last, two rainbow coloured wellington boots cross the floor, toes turned slightly inwards, trailing wet, mud-tinged puddles.
She lowers her tall frame into the chair opposite and smiles that smile.
Lovely - I really like the use of the shoes as a motif, and the setting is beautifully evoked.
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